What time does the drum beat?
When the raven is silent in the woods?
When the sun shines gold on green reeds
that turn black at dusk?
When we stand on the dock, moving
toward each other in the evening wind?
Our hands touch, as red and violet bands
across the sky exchange warmth.
The dark water laps at itself.
From the red pines on shore, crows caw.
The smell of the lake rises,
and the loon's cry reaches across the water.
Darkness and memories float in
on airy curtains of awe.
We feel the trembling all around us,
that quivering inside the air,
that longing, embedded in the world,
to feel itself.

Sylvan Moe



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